Vampire: The Masquerade
by DutchWarlord12
Summary: Los Angeles. Hollywood. There were once just words to Katniss Everdeen, until she received a call for the audition of a lifetime. A chance to bring her sister and herself out of the muck and poverty of small town Kentucky, to grasp a life worth living. Yet Los Angeles is not the city of Angels, Katniss Everdeen has never been lucky.
1. Chapter 1

"Good evening, my fellow Kindred. My apologies...for interrupting any business or...any prior engagements…"

Someone spoke, the voice difficult to make out through the ringing in her ears. She shifted, tried to move her head, get off sore, aching knees. Nothing moved. Not her head, not her hands. As if her body and mind refused to speak. An ache rippled through her chest, lancing to where her heart was. Not her heart, that didn't race at all. She could barely fe-

Something shifted, another stab of pain, and her eyelids fluttered open, then slammed shut from the lights above. Katniss forced them open to see a mass of shapes and colors that sharpened. Blurs became people, seats, carpets and…something that jutted from her shirt.

Not her shirt; her chest.

A gloved hand wrapped around it, drew it out inch by inch. It was long, cylindrical, tapered to a sharp point at the end as it came free. There was no pain, only a tingling numbness, like when her leg fell asleep and was now waking up. Her brain rummaged around, looking for the word. There was a word for that thi-

A stake. Someone had impaled her with a stake.

"...it is unfortunate that the affair that gathers us together tonight is a troubling one..."

The voice continued, enunciating each word with a British accent. She shoved that thought aside. The voice wasn't important. The stake clattered to the floor, bounced and rolled off the edge of the stage. Not a spot of blood was on it. Her eyes tipped down to her shirt, waiting for a torrent of blood to gush out. Nothing. The shirt was torn, stained, but not with blood.

That…that wasn't right. Her brain knew what should happen. There should be pain, then blood gushing out, her body sagging to the ground as everything grew cold, her life flashing before her eyes and - whatever else happened to dying people. The first time she'd killed a deer, there had been blood. When she had yanked the arrow from its neck, it had spurted across her face and jacket.

She shouldn't feel good. Apart from a dry throat, she felt … great. Better than she had in months. Years. Ever since the funeral.

"...as Prince, I am within my rights to grant or deny the kindred of this city the privilege of siring. Many of you have to come to me seeking permission, and I have endorsed _some_ of these requests, but the accused that sits before you tonight was not refused permission. Indeed, he never asked."

A pair of dress shoes appeared, light reflecting off polished tips into her eyes. She twisted her head away. Two rough hands wrapped around her head, twisting it back.

"Eyes front," someone hissed in her ear.

She ignored the voice, tried to bring her hands up to fight back as something cold and metallic bit into them. Handcuffs. They had _handcuffed_ her. She struggled, the cuffs felt like they'd cut through skin to the bone and her head threatened to snap off in that vice-like grip. The floor creaked again, dress shoes leaving little imprints in the dust as the speaker resumed pacing.

The man with his back to her was covered in white. White dress pants, a white jacket, the hair on the back of his head snow white. A stark contrast to the room swathed in red. The auditorium held row after row of seats upholstered in red leather, their color faded to a dark burgundy. Balconies hovered above them, and looking down on all of it were box seats, thick purple drapes unfurling from either side, throwing shadows onto the audience.

"...chose, on his own accord, to act without the necessary sanction, transgressing one of our most cherished laws…"

Her eyes widened. There _was_ an audience. Not a full house, maybe fifty people, most sitting alone. One row in the back was taken up by a dozen men and women wearing leather jackets, arms covered in tattoos, boots propped on the seats in front of them. One woman, with red lips and blonde hair, wearing a mini-skirt and dress shirt tied to reveal her alabaster white stomach, blew a kiss to a portly man in a box seat. He looked down at her over his gold-rimmed glasses, set off against the purple of his suit, then turned his nose up, looking back to the stage.

Others wore three piece business suits with ties a few feet away from others in outfits that would make a stripper blush. Clothing rustled as people squirmed in their chairs, lighters clinked open and sparks appeared followed by the smell of smoke and tobacco.

Katniss narrowed her eyes as the woman caught her looking, and winked. At Katniss. She must have been at least a hundred feet away, maybe more, but Katniss could pick out every freckle on her bare skin, every strand of blonde hair that escaped her pigtails. Which…which made no sense. No one could see that far. Even with perfect vision, it wasn't possible.

A deep breath and the women's perfume hit her, like flowers. Past that the smell of unwashed bodies, men's cologne - and blood.

"...caught shortly after the embrace of this childe. It pains me to…"

The last thing she remembered was getting off at the Cal State LA Bus station, going into the convenience store for a drink to wait for her Uber to arrive, to take her to the audition...and then this. Nothing in between.

Drugs. The only explanation that made any sense. They had jumped her, injected her with God knew what, then dragged her here. That's why she thought she could see these people, smell their cologne. It was her mind trying to deal with whatever was going on. No person could do this unless they were part of the X-men.

None of it was real.

Still, why would they pick her? She only had fourteen dollars and eight cents in her pocket. Unless they had taken it - in which case she was broke. Again. Plenty of credit card debt though; they could 'steal' as much of that as they wanted. It made no sense to kidnap some girl from a two-bit town in Kentucky.

Unless they wanted someone no one would miss...

The hands tightened, digging into her skull as the voice sped up, growing louder with each word.

"...considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization…"

The stage floor groaned, then groaned again, threatening to break, each one louder than the last. The sharp smell of steel pierced her nose. The Prince turned around, his eyes fixated on something behind her. The front matched the back. White dress shirt with gold-white cufflinks, white tie and a face framed by a snowy beard that made him look like someone's grandpa, the kind that wore a suit even to dinner at home. The only color rested in his shirt pocket, a spot of red.

A rose.

Her neck cracked as the hands holding it forced her to look right. There was another hostage in dirty clothing, dark hair that curled and fell around his face, obscuring it. Like her, he was handcuffed. Two men in suits and dark glasses held him by a shoulder each, though he didn't struggle. He did nothing when their grip tightened, and a third grabbed his hair, yanking it out of the way so his neck was bare. The hands holding her head tightened as a giant strode into view.

The giant cast a shadow over both of them. The overcoat he wore strained at the shoulders, leaving his chest bare, revealing metal armor underneath. A bald head and expressionless face with dark eyes that looked at the man below him with utter indifference. On his shoulder rested a sword longer than her arm, longer than _her._ It was shaped like a butcher's cleaver, fat and curved at the end.

"...you may know, the penalty for this transgression, is death."

The white man stepped between them, blocking her view as he leaned down towards the hostage.

"Forgive me," he whispered, then stepped back.

"Let the penalty commence."

An instant was all it took. The sword shifted. Katniss blinked and something thudded onto the floor. When her eyes opened the man's head rolled back and forth. The sword tore itself free from the ground, sending splinters everywhere. The two men holding the body let go and it slumped forward, head and neck separated by inches. Then it began to glow.

Red lines appeared across the skin of his neck and hands, like cracks. First one line, then a dozen, a thousand, each splintering apart like a river dividing into hundreds of little streams. Heat radiated from it like a fire and the red cracks turned white, glowing brighter and covering more and more skin. His clothing caught fire for a second.

Then everything dissolved into a little pile of ash.

No.

No matter how many times she closed and opened her eyes, the scene never changed. No body, no head. Just ash. Hallucinations. Whatever they had given her were causing hallucinations. Bodies did not glow red, or white and then turn into ash. People who were stabbed, bled. People who died became corpses.

"This isn't happening," she whispered to herself.

A nightmare. Except her nightmares involved empty pantries, piles of unpaid bills chasing her around the house. She would have woken up by now from her usual nightmares, at home in the bed she shared with Prim. Probably have woken up Prim too, held her while she fell back asleep, as she spent the rest of the night up worrying about overdue bills, if the water and electricity would still work in the morning.

None of them were like this. None had felt so real. The handcuffs felt real. The heat, the perfume, the creaking of wood, the splinters that stung her face. When pieces of ash drifted down to rest in her hair, that _was_ real. If her hands weren't cuffed she could touch it, feel it crumble beneath her fingertips.

Most people would have vomited at being covered in dead person flakes.

But all she could think about was the thirst. Her throat was parched, drier than the Sahara desert, a stream parched by the summer heat. It prodded at her mind, shoving everything else aside. The man, the audience, the handcuffs, even what would happen to Prim. All of it was washed away by the yearning to drink something, to end this thirst. Someone uncorked a bottle, the overpowering scent of alcohol blotting brushing every other scent aside. She hated booze.

In that moment she would have given her left arm for a sip.

"Let tonight's proceedings serve as a reminder to our community that we must adhere to the code that binds our society, lest we endanger all of our blood. As for the childe..."

The Prince's black eyes rested on her … the same way she would look at deer in the woods. He opened his mouth-

"This is _BULLSHIT._ "

It echoed off the walls. The hands holding her head went slack. She twisted out of their grip and searched the room. In the back row, a man with olive skin and gray eyes lunged to his feet, kept in place by a woman with buzzcut hair and a mountain-sized man with dark skin. His face was feral, teeth bared and, for a moment, it looked like he might throw them both off, leap over seats and storm the stage. The woman leaned in, whispered something in his ear. Katniss heard only fragments. Whatever she said kept the gray-eye man there and her heart sank.

Until she realized he wasn't alone. Her eyes swept the room to find at least half, more than half of the audience on their feet. The man in purple, his glasses sliding down to his nose, the woman who had flirted with him. They shouted and yelled. Voices overlapped until they were indistinguishable. She couldn't make out the words, but she didn't need to. It sure as hell wasn't a standing ovation.

Hope.

Had he done something wrong, gone off script? Maybe this wasn't how tonight's little show was supposed to go. Maybe, for _once_ , life would give her a damn break. Or as much of a break as it ever did. Not being executed in the middle of an auditorium would go a long way to making up for the last thirteen years of her life.

"If Mister Hawthorne would let me _finish_ ," the man in white said, "I have decided to let this Kindred live."

A click and her arms fell free, wrists aching and chafed red but otherwise unharmed. The arm on her shoulder disappeared, she fell. New hands caught her, dragging her to her feet. They wore suits, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. She wrenched her arms away and nearly toppled over, legs wobbling like a newborn calf. There went any hope of running off stage.

"She will be instructed in the ways of our kind and be granted the same rights and responsibilities. Let no one say I am unsympathetic to the plights and causes of the community. I thank you all for attending these proceedings and I hope their … significance is not lost," he said.

He turned and brushed past her, heading for the back stage. She turned to watch him go. His wrist flicked towards the thick black curtains. They flew apart just long enough for him to walk through without breaking stride, then snapped shut behind. She blinked. Had tha-that actually happened?

She snorted. He probably had someone waiting for him.

"Follow the Prince," someone growled.

She turned. The executioner pointed one gloved finger towards the curtains, other hand curled around the sword handle. Three more men waited behind him, hands clasped behind their backs. The message was clear.

She followed, since the alternative was her head rolling on the floor. The floor creaked behind her with every footstep. She hit the curtains hard, shoved from behind. They blinded her, she stumbled through and crashed into a pile of mannequins. They thumped onto the floor, spilling corsets, hoop-skirted dresses, and faux eighteenth century suits across the floor while their friends gazed on in silence.

Katniss pushed herself upright, the dusty floor reminding her of an equally dry throat, saw a fake cardboard castle and its turrets to her right. On her left, a poorly drawn skyline of Paris, with a blurry Eiffel tower in the background. The horde of props covered the floor, leaving only a winding path the Prince followed. He turned and beckoned her with a finger before continuing.

"Your sire - tragic, my apologies," he said when she caught up, "but you see there is a…strict code of conduct that all of us must…must adhere to, if we wish to survive."

"Whose w- do you have anything to dri-"

A sharp cuff to the back of her head and she nearly collided with the Prince. Pain rippled down her neck. She scowled at the thug behind her, saw the sword, and turned back around. The Prince continued as if nothing had happened.

"When someone, anyone, breaks these laws, they undermine the well-worn fabric of our centuries old society. Understand my predicament Miss…" he paused, turning to her.

Katniss was caught off guard, too busy wondering just how deep the rabbit hole went with this man. She saw him wait, expectant. Turned to see the executioner nod, then waited a bit longer, until the executioner's eyes narrowed, the rasp of leather gloves tightening around the sword handle before answering.

"Everdeen."

The Prince smiled, nodded, then kept walking. The dusty mannequins and wood floors gave way to a narrow concrete hallway. They took the corner, and ahead of them a sign glowing in red read EXIT.

"Miss Everdeen. Allowing you to live makes me directly responsible for your subsequent behavior. What I am offering you is this opportunity to transcend the fate woven by your Sire."

Katniss nodded. That was safe. If they wanted to let her go, she wouldn't make them think twice. Then she could call Prim, and find something to drink. Her tongue snaked out across chapped lips. So thirsty. Maybe she would find something to drink first. Yes, that would be alright.

The door groaned, opened on its own as the Prince waved a hand at it, light spilling out into a darkened alleyway. The smell of trash and urine poured through, car horns and wailing police sirens filling whatever space was left. In the distance she heard a man and woman saying the same word over and over again, the pace quickening until their voices overlapped, the woman gasp - oh.

Still in L.A., at least if the movies were right.

"You will be brought to Santa Monica. There you will meet an agent by the name of Mercurio who will provide the details of your…labor. I have shown you _great_ clemency. Prove it was more than a wasted gesture, fledgling."

Katniss had a million questions. What the hell were Kindred? Why did they call her a 'fledgling'? Were they all crazy, and why would they bother to grab a girl from some two bit hick town for their midnight pow-wow. She opened her mouth to ask one, or all of them, at the same time and found herself propelled through the open doorway and into the night.

"Do not come back, until you do. Good evening."

The door squealed as it slammed shut. She got to her feet, grimacing as water soaked through her jeans from a dirty, puddle that welcomed her. Hoped was water, at least. Something sticky clung to her skin and her pants, her pock-

"Shit," she hissed, hands patting her jeans. The bumps where her wallet, phone and keys should be were flat. Not satisfied, she dug into both front pockets, as if they might reappear if she reached deep enough. No luck. Her back pockets, where she kept her fourteen dollars and eight cents were empty too.

Bastards. The 'Prince's' suit was worth a fortune; why'd they need her money? They hadn't even given her anything to drink.

She strode to the door and grabbed the handle. The metal piece clicked. She yanked, and felt it shudder. Locked. She tried again with the same result, so she put a boot on the wall and pulled with both hands. The handle shrieked and she jerked back, nearly falling down the steps behind her. The handle dangled loosely from the door, kept in place only by the tips of several loose screws.

Had it been like that be- she shook her head. It didn't matter. What did matter was that they had thrown her outside into this alley straight from a bad horror film, locked her out, and left her with no money or phone. That, _that_ was her problem. A young woman alone in L.A.?

Her mother had warned her about this sort of thing, back when she was still her mother.

"Open up," she yelled. Her fist came down on the door once. When it came back, the door was dented. Not a small dent, like you could make on cheap metal. This was big enough to put her hand into. How had she done tha-

"Well, sweetheart, looks like yer day just went to shit."

How she hadn't seen him before, she didn't know. Two feet from the steps, a man leaned against the wall, covered in shadow except for his right arm clutching a bottle. The label read Jack Daniel's. A cigarette end glowed, casting a bit of light between the two fingers holding it.

"What a scene though, man! Hoo-wee," he chuckled, the drawl telling her he came from the south too, maybe further south than her. He pushed off the wall and strode into the circle of light thrown by the lamp above the door. Blue eyes peered out from a weatherbeaten face, worn, the kind she saw those men whose lives were spent in the fields. The wind ruffled dirty blonde hair, and his lips quirked to the right as he smiled at her

He took a swig from the bottle, tattoos coiling across his arm and bare chest, covered only by a faded jacket with a red A on it's breast. "They just plopped ya out here like a naked babe in the woods, but then _Prince_ Snow was always a little shit. No help, no nada, just you in the middle of fuckin' L.A. Real nice."

"I-uh,-"

"Name's Haymitch, though everyone round here calls me Smilin' Jack on account of this," he wiggled the bottle, a thin layer of liquid sloshing around.

"Here, try it."

She started to reach for it, took her hand back. The amber colored liquid look so refreshing, cool, but she wouldn't give in. Not like others she'd known. Not even for a sip. "N-no thanks."

"I'd say it takes the edge off but that'd be a lie. Worst part 'bout the change, nothing tastes like it used to. Still, ol' habits die hard." He downed the rest, then chucked the bottle overhead. It bounced off a dumpster and shattered on the pavement.

"Now, I know this is probably a lot for ya to take in so why, uh, why dontcha let me show ya the ropes? Whaddya say?"

She should have known. Another nutjob. Who else would hang around here?

"Ropes? I just...do you have a cell phone? I just want to call my sister and let her know where I am and that…I'm okay," she said. Then, as an afterthought, "Do you have anything else to drink?"

He shook his head.

"That's a no go, for both. Ya try and run the gorilla in, the one with the sword, why he and his buddies will just hunt ya down and do to you what he did to yer Sire. Plus, it'll be sunrise in a few hours and if yer still outside, well, let's say that'll be a view y'ain't ever gonna forget."

"I just need to call my sister," Katniss repeated.

Trash blew past her boots as the wind whipped up. She crossed her arms across her chest, tried to cover the tears in her shirt, but didn't feel cold. The last time she'd checked, it was supposed to be chilly tonight. Above her clouds were driven by the wind like a shepherd and his flock fleeing wolves. Not winter-coat cold, but cold enough that anyone without a jacket ought to feel it. Yet she stood in the alley like it was the middle of July even though it was January.

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Ya can't EVER talk to yer family, y'hear? As far as yer family's concerned, yer dead." Katniss took a step back but he didn't notice. "If ya try and go home, talk to them, hell _email_ them, then that gorilla is going to go in there and kill ya, yer family, probably yer whole damn town. These people will do anythin' to keep the Kine in the dark, keep the Masquerade goin'."

"Kine, Masquerade…what the _hell_ is going on here?"

"Ya telling me no one told ya? Shit," he snorted, crossed his arms mirroring her. "Fuckin' figures. Well, I got some good news and some bad news. The good news is y'ain't ever gonna need sunscreen again."

"Bad news?"

"Well, sweetheart, bad news is yer a Vampire."


	2. Crash Course

She stared at him.

"A what?"

"A Vampire"

"Like...Twilig-"

"Don't. Dontcha even say it. Damn Finnick and his movies - _not_ like Twilight."

"Then..."

"Kids today. Like Dracula. Ever heard of Dracula? 'I vant to suck yer blood'." Haymitch brought an arm up to his face, pretending to hide behind an invisible cape. The accent reminded her of Count Chocula. If Count Chocula came from Alabama. "Except you do."

"A vampire," she repeated.

"A-yup."

"...bullshit."

"Ya think I'm joking," he took a long pull on his cigarette. "Tell me, ya feel cold? Nah. How 'bout hungry? Nope. _Thirsty?_ The kind that won't leave ya alone, won't let ya think 'bout nothing else."

His face split into a broad grin. She scowled in response. Something had given her away. The thirst continued to nag, needling, always in the back of her mind, clamoring like a hungry baby demanding to be fed this instant. It was all she could think about, all she wanted to think about.

Thirst wasn't always a constant companion like hunger, but there were . In the summer, the worst could be averted, but in the depths of winter when the water pipes froze from lack of heat, they would be forced to rely on snow, to make the long trek and crack the thick ice at the laken, frayed winter jackets unable to keep the wind out, hands blue from the cold. Even then, when it felt like every drop of water had been squeezed from her body, she always gave the first mouthful to Prim. She'd never complained, suffered in silence.

If she had been tested in this moment, she might selfishly steal the first for herself, even the second. This thirst would not take no for an answer. Her vision started to swim. Haymitch split into two blurry versions of himself, each one smoking their own cigarette. Even her legs wobbled like a newborn foal.

It was worse than that.

"Got anything else to drink?"

"Hahaha! Ooo-wee, we're popping a cherry here today. Sweetheart, for what ya need, a little Jack Daniel's won't do the trick." He paused, shook his head. "Never thought I'd say that. What ya need is blood."

Katniss really wished she would just wake up.

"Now blood, it's yer new rack o' lamb, yer new champagne - blood's yer new fuckin' heroin, sweetheart. Haha! Get ready though, cause it ain't never as sweet as the first time," he pointed behind her. "There's some poor sap round the corner. Can't find his car, can't get any reception. Good 'nuff for a virgin. Now dontcha worry about what to do-"

She stopped listening after the word 'cell phone'. The 'poor sap' had a cell phone. She could call Prim. So long as he thought she bought into this, he'd let her walk. Perfect. The poor sap might even have something to drink, if she asked nicely.

"Alright," she said. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Go get'em," he said, burning down the last of his cigarette. It dropped and he ground it beneath a bootheel. By the time she turned, he had another one lit in his mouth.

"'Ey!"

She kept walking but glanced over her shoulder.

"Don't drain him dry. Leave a little bit o' fuel in the tank, if ya get mah drift," Haymitch said, slouching against the wall.

Her head bobbed up and down. Sure, whatever.

She stepped over stagnant puddles and weaved around torn garbage bags that spewed takeout containers onto the floor. Past a rusted blue door and crumpled beer cans. She slowed when she came to the corner, peeked around the edge. A man in a gray business suit and glasses paced back and forth, muttering to himself, jabbing his thumb into his cell while the other held a battered briefcase.

"Stupid, three hundred dollar piece of shit," he cursed, then rapped it twice against the briefcase before putting it back to his ear. "Come on, come on...god-fucking _-damnit_."

Alright, this would be simple. She'd walk up to him and tell him the truth. Kidnapped, she had no money, no phone, no wallet … maybe leave out the part about a man being killed and turning into ash. Tell him she knew her way around the area, not a complete lie, offer to help him find his way out in return for using his cell. One call and the police would show up. The next to tell Prim she was coming home and never leaving, ever again.

Everything could go back to normal.

She turned the corner. Maybe thirty feet separated them. With every step she felt lighter, as if every stepped helped push this nightmare further into the recesses of her mind, where it could all be forgotten.

Twenty feet. A dozen more footsteps and everything would go back to the way it ought to be. The man turned to look at her, opened his mouth to ask something.

He never got the chance.

She crossed the space separating them in a flash, arms and legs pumping with minds of their owns. His hands came up, phone and briefcase tumbling through the air. They fell with agonizing slowness, as if she was on fast forward and the world on pause. Even his arms moved as if they were encased in concrete. The cell phone and briefcase were still mid-air when she reached him and leapt.

Legs wrapped around his waist. He staggered, arms windmilling to keep his balance. She felt ribs bend, creak and then crack beneath the pressure. One hand forced his head to the side, the other jammed his shoulder down, exposing his neck. It stretched before her, a buffet of blue veins that pressed against pallid skin. Her mouth stretched open, and she bit down as he squealed, then went silent. Hot, coppery liquid flooded her mouth, coated her tongue. It felt… it felt amazing. Like the half-burnt bread the baker's boy had given her, so long ago.

Better than that.

She drank.

And drank.

The desert in her throat sank beneath the torrent of blood that filled the way a dry stream took water from the ocean. Satiated, her belly filled, stretched, the haze clouding her mind evaporated like water in a heat wave. Her arms and legs hers once more.

Then it hit her. What she had done, _was_ doing.

The man's body hit the wall with a thunk and he slid down, a thin trail of blood spilling down his neck and staining his dress shirt, like melted ice cream spilling over the side of a sundae cup. She licked her lips, tongue snaking out to hunt those little drops that tried to drift down to her chin, then she recoiled, hands tearing at her face to wipe the stain away, spitting traces of it from her mouth, wiping it off against her jeans. She felt...full.

"Oh God," she whispered, collapsing to her knees, half-wanting to vomit. Some part of her knew that would just bring the thirst back, and then she would do it again. She jammed two fingers into her neck, fumbling for a pulse. People had a pulse, the dead didn't. They dug deep, pierced skin as she moved from place to place, counting, changing, hoping for something to thump against her fingers. A pulse, a beat. Anything.

Nothing.

She kept counting. Minutes passed. Nothing changed.

"He wasn't lying," she said, "he wasn't lying…he wasn't lying."

What felt like a year passed as she chanted those words, fingers pressed against her neck as if something might change at any moment. Some part of her, buried deep, kicked in. It forced her upright, made her walk past the man's limp body that fluttered with shallow breaths. She put one foot in front of another until she stood in front of Haymitch. When her eyes met his, the grin melted off his face.

"Sorry ya had to learn the hard way."

Katniss barely heard his words.

Every second that passed let her senses stretch out, stiff muscles never used before now learning their limits, her mind racing to sort through the flood of sensation. Her skin thrummed as a dozen conversations in a dozen languages whisked across her skin. Further down the street she heard grunts as several men passed cigarettes around, tobacco smoke and gasoline from lighters. Six blocks south grease slithered into the air and drifted down the alley from a pizza parlor, tinged with a faint dusting of flour and tomatoes. When several cars skidded to a stop she could almost feel the heat as rubber burned against pavement, how car doors swung open then slammed closed. Boots and sneakers thumped against asphalt. In the alley rats clawed over mounds of half-eaten TV-dinners laced with salt. She could see two tangle over a rind of moldy bread, a flurry of pink claws and gray fur, squealing and yelping as they fought. Further up in the tenements surrounding them babies cried out, ignored by parents entranced with TV's giving off bright white lights and cheerful sounds that drowned others out.

It felt as if all of her life, before this moment, had been sifted through a filter. Every sound muted, every taste blunted, every sight muddied, all of it dulled within a dream that refused to let her leave.

Until now.

Haymitch's voice dragged her back.

"Hate it or love it, ya feel it. Yer a born-again predator. That blood bubblin' up inside ya? That's what it's all about. Alright," he slapped his hands together. "All Kindred - that's, uh, our word for vampire - got a few things in common. Things that put us at the top of the food chain; a body that can take a real beatin', sharper senses, and if ya play yer cards right, eternal life. S'no sure thing, but still, s'not a bad deal."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. What the hell could she say?

"Now you ain't invincible, but forget the books and movies. Garlic? Worthless. A cross? Pfft, shove it right up their ass. A stake? Only if it hits ya in the heart and - well, I think ya know about that one, yeah? Runnin' water? No problem. I bathe," he sniffed, " occasionally."

The thought of a hot shower sparked her interest. Hopefully one that lasted from now until the end of next year. Did vampires even prune under water?

"Now a shotgun blast to the head? That's a problem. Fire? That's a _big_ fuckin' problem, and if ya ever catch a sunrise…eh, ya can figure it out," one hand made its way to the mop of hair, scratching as his eyes went skyward, "feel like I keep forgettin' someth-"

A loud pop cut through the air. At first Katniss thought it might just be a blown tire. Several more followed in quick succession, until the air was filled with them. Heavier booms cut through, like enormous drums, until it sounded like a marching band was heading their way. One that made music with the same instruments and no director .

"Okay, now what the fuck is this?"

Haymitch cocked his head, one ear to the sky. The booms and pops were joined by a rata-tat-tat. Guns. From the sound and the yelling, a lot of guns in a lot of hands.

"Come on," Haymitch said, pushing off the wall. He crossed the alley in three long strides and booted the rusted blue door. It opened with a crack. A faded sign came crashing down. He kicked it aside.

"I'm gonna check out what's going on. Get up on the second floor and stay there, keep ya out of trouble," he said, halfway down the lane.

"I can take care of myself," Katniss called back.

"Sure ya can sweetheart, now git," he said, shooing her then disappearing around the bend before she could get another word in. Scowling, she stepped through and closed the door. The hinges squealed, then it fell out of the frame. Hissing, she shoved it. It went flying into the alley, collided with a dumpster.

Katniss winced. More gunshots, but no one coming her way. She turned, hoping to find a staircase to the second floor.

There wasn't one, not that she could find it in this mess. From the broken down, rusted hulks of three cars, this was a mechanics shop. Not a particularly good one. She stepped on a floor layered in yellowed newspapers, avoiding things that fell under the category of 'parts of a car she ought to know' scattered across the ground. She bent down, picked up a wrench. Now, at least she had a weapon.

Fat lot of good it'd do her against a gun.

One corner had boxes and crates piled to the ceiling. Fifteen feet above her a metal L shaped catwalk stretched above the cars. It connected two hallways and what looked like an office area.

"Well, I'm supposed to be..."

Were Vampires super-human or just super-dead? A question she'd deal with later.

She moved underneath the catwalk, bent her knees, jumped and-

Slammed head first into it. Pain blinded her, making forget to grab the handrail and sending her back to the ground. She hit ass first, like a heap of bricks, banging her head against the pavement.

"Fuck," she hissed, rubbing her head.

The second try worked much better. She grabbed hold of the crosspiece, then hoisted herself over it in a single bound. To her left the catwalk gave way to an unlight hall. In front it ran into another where moonlight seeped through a window. Directly across was an office, filled with desks and computers.

Nearby something shattered. She smelled Haymitch before he strutted into view, pale light illuminating his features and glinting off the white and black stubble on his chin. He motioned her over.

"Fuckin' Sabbat raid," he whispered when she was close enough, "the Sabbat, they're uh...Christ I was hoping to spare ya this shit till later. The Sabbat are uh…well, eh, they're mostly mindless, bloodthirsty arseholes - that's all ya need to know for now."

"What are they doing here?" She nudged him aside to see into the alley. It looked empty, but the gunfire grew in volume, reaching a crescendo. A block away, maybe less, closing fast.

"They probably got wind of the gathering, figured they could raise a little hell and put some pressure on the Prince," Haymitch shrugged. "I wouldn't mind, but they'd gun us down just as happily as Snow."

"Why do you keep calling him-"

Haymitch waved a hand, cutting her off.

"Later. Job number one right now? Get outta here alive. Sabbat might be mindless, but they hit like a mack truck, like ragin' savages. Nothing a fledgling like ya wants to mess with," he added taking a step back.

"Stop calling me tha-"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to the ground with him. She yelped, tried to fight it. The window exploded, walls riddled with bullets that sent puffs of plaster, brick and glass raining down on them. The wrench fell from loose fingers and clattered away. For a moment she could hear nothing else but spent shells clinking on the ground and the roar of gunfire.

Just as quickly it ended, gunfire retreating into the distance. Neither of them moved for a second, then Haymitch got to his feet, back cracking.

"Yer - welcome," Haymitch grunted, pulling her up with one hand. In the other he placed a curved piece of narrow metal. A lockpick. "Head for the backway, I'm gonna circle around, make sure there ain't any stragglers in the area. Meet me in the alley over."

He disappeared. Katniss sprinted down the hall past the office door, suppressing an urge to look inside. Vampires might be bulletproof, but she did not want to find out just how far that went. Taking a knee, she slid the lockpick inside the keyhole. Tongue pressed between teeth, she worked it as the seconds passed. It opened with a click loud as a gunshot. She opened the door, accidentally tore it from its three rusted hinges, then chucked it behind her.

"Should have done that in the first place," she muttered. She took the steps down three at a time, another door rushing into view at the bottom. Katniss didn't bother with the handle, didn't even try to slow down. The door came apart like cheap christmas wrapping paper. She smelled fresh air, steel and something sour, like burnt charcoal-

Pain tore through her stomach, arm and shoulder and she hit the pavement like a sack of bricks. Shot, she realized. She rolled over to see two gangly men in tattered clothes holding rifles with banana shaped magazines. They grinned, black teeth and fangs bared as they strode towards her with a lazy gait that reminded her of ambling wolves.

Then Haymitch dropped from the building's roof.

He landed behind the one farthest from her, picked him up like a sack of flour then bent him in half. He snapped like a stick. The next turned around and almost dropped his gun. Blue light wrapped around Haymitch's arms. Katniss blinked, and he seemed to teleport in front of the last thug, crossing ten feet in a flash. The man fired, bullets going wide. Haymitch smacked the gun away, wrapped both hands around his skull and spun it three hundred and sixty degrees. It toppled to the ground..

The gun clattered to a rest a few feet from her.

She stood as they both crumbled to ash. The wind picked up, scattering most of it across the alley. Her shirt sported several new bulletholes. So did her arm. She peered through one, saw Haymitch walking towards her. Curious, she poked a finger through, then shuddered and withdrew when it came out the other end. Before her eyes they grew smaller,. new skin filling the gap.

"Whoo-eee. Look at'em potholes, heh," he chuckled.

"Feels great. You want some?" She winced as pain rippled from her wounds, waning with each second that passed. There was a gun two feet away from her. Before she could go for it, Haymitch picked it up and turned it into pretzel shaped, then offered it to her like a clown giving a child a balloon toy.

"What the-"

"Filthy things," Haymitch said, tossing the rifle, "never liked'em. Cleaner now, but still."

"I could have used that you ass!" If they had guns, she wanted one.

"Heh, ya got spunk sweetheart. I like that. Just watch it, I've made Kindred deep-throat dynamite for less," he answered, waggling a finger in front of her face. "Nice job picking the lock. Not exactly an angel in life were ya?"

"Girl has to live," she replied. Her juvie record was none of his business, and she was only half paying attention anyways. When her finger prodded the bullet hole this time, only the tip fit. No pain, no odd sensation. She wiped a trace of blood on her jeans. It wasn't like she could wear them in public again. Not without being questioned by the police. Glancing at Haymitch, she caught him sniffing the air like a dog.

Embarrassed but curious, she did the same. The air reeked of garbage and something that smelled like burnt toast. Behind that though was the sticky scent of old alcohol, stale sweat and something else. Not food, or drink, almost...despair.

"Hmm, not the freshest catch, but it'll do. Round the corner, down the stairs, it'll help close up them potholes quicker," Haymitch said "now, with feeding it's all 'bout the quality, but hey, beggars can't be choosers. Y'ever had a Ph.D. sweetheart? Oh, that' is _good_ stuff." Haymitch licked his lips, a drop of drool at the corner of his mouth. Katniss was more concerned with the implication. She took another whiff, heard a wheezing cough, and it clicked.

A homeless person. He wanted her to…

"No. I'm not...killi-drinking...No. They've almost healed," she answered. Haymitch frowned, eyes narrowed at her. "I'm not doing it, not to him. Not- just, no."

She wouldn't prey on someone … someone who no one would care about if they lived or died. Someone that could easily have been her.

Prim would never forgive her for that.

"Ya forgettin' stuff already? I said _don't_ kill'em. At least not the innocent ones. Yer a monster now, make no mistake, one of the damned and fallen. Ya need to hold onto every last shred of humanity ya got. Every innocent ya kill, well, brings ya closer to the Beast," he said, both hands patting down his pockets. He pulled out his cigarette pack, opened the top, then tossed it aside where he saw it was empty.

Her mind raced back to the first encounter, the way her body moved with a will of its own, latching onto the businessman, ready to tear his arm off if it meant getting to that vein. Something had taken over her body, slipping itself into her skin, used it, then letting her back when it was finished. Whatever this 'beast' was, it needed to stay chained inside its kennel, whatever the cost.

"The Beast's always there, waitin' to take over," he said, hands digging through his back pockets, "When it does, it's like a wild animal wearing yer skin. Desperate, scared, reckless, it'll do anything to survive, but _ya_ gotta deal with the consequences. Got it?"

She started to nod and froze.

'You said innocents?"

His grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Knew there was a reason I liked ya. Yeah, _innocent_ humans. If some asshole levels a twelve-gauge yer way, ya can drain him, skin him and bash his skull in. Self-preservation is a vital part o' humanity after all. My second-favorite part. Just remember, the only thing standing between ya and turnin' into a raging animal is yer humanity and the thirst."

This time she nodded.

"Cool. Now, if ya want a lesson on how _really_ not to act, take notes from those Sabbat arseholes," Haymitch said. Together they started towards a chain-link gate at the end of the alley. "Yer a big bad vampire, yeah congrats, now keep it to yourself. Ya go n' roar n' beat yerr chest and...that's what ya get."

He ground a tiny pile of ash with the heel of his boot. In the back of her mind some part noted that her funeral would be cheap. No coffin, no plot in the cemetery. Prim would get all the insurance mo - might get it soon, when Katniss never turned up.

"You said we were top of the food chain?" Katniss said. As the last word left her lips, she realized just how stupid that sounded. Wolves and bears ruled the woods back home, but they didn't advertise it. Hard to catch prey when they heard you from miles away.

They reached the chain link gate, Haymitch pressing his face to it and peering through. Satisfied, he clambered over, Katniss behind him. They both dropped onto the pavement without a sound. When she turned, she was face to face with a yellow bulldozer, the blade crusted with dirt.

It was parked beside a line of construction vehicles. Piles of bricks, wood, steel beams and pipes were scattered across the yard, some leaning against a half-finished building, all covered by blue plastic tarp that waved and whipped in the wind. She dropped to the pavement and mimicked Haymitch. Paused, waited, listened. There was plenty to hear. Gunfire, people screaming, noises that resembled no animal Katniss had ever heard of..

A loud _whang_ caught her attention, shoes scraping against pavement as someone refused to lift their feet.

"Same reason ya don't let humans see ya feeding," Haymitch whispered, scurrying around the back end of the bulldozer and dashing from vehicle to vehicle, "It's why the wolf doesn't want the sheep to know he's there. It's also why ya don't go juggling dumpsters or outrun the 8:15 from Sacramento and it's why ya didn't know any of this when ya woke up this morning."

He had her there. Vampires to her meant mono-chrome black clothing, platform shoes and midnight showings of Blade or...sparkling romance stories. She bumped into him, almost apologized as he held up a hand, so she leaned against the truck, eyes and ears open. He peered around, then turned back to her. He grinned, both fangs peeking out from beneath his lips.

"Just remember, keep our secret and ya make things easier on all of us. We're livin' in the age of cell phone cameras, fuck-ups ain't tolerated. Now, ya ready for a pop quiz?" She never managed to answer. "Looks like shovelhead over there got separated from his pack. He's wounded, probably even greener than y'are. Take care of him."

Katniss moved around Haymitch and leaned out past the truck. At the far end near a brick wall someone paced back and forth, someone not human. Arms hung to mid-shin. She caught a whiff of something like wet dog. The vampire paused, lifted it's head into the air and seemed to take in the night air.

Katniss yanked herself behind the truck.

"Kill him?"

"I sure as hell don't mean to lend him some bus money. Ya never killed anything?"

"Uh - Birds, deer."

"Same thing, cept' yer going to be doing it with your hands. Actually wait," he stuffed a hand in his pocket, pulled out a small red plastic handle. With a flick, six inches of steel appeared. Switchblade. He flipped it then passed it to her handle first.

"Here. Or ya can use one of them two by four's," he pointed at the stack of wood.

She paused. So far she hadn't done anything...well, anything that wouldn't get her more than an overnight stay in jail and a lot of free visits to a psychiatrist. But this...if she killed someone that was it. It could mean jail, prison, death, Prim with foster-

"Sweetheart."

She turned to see Haymitch leaning against the truck, arms crossed.

"If ya can't do buster over there in, ya won't last a night. I can guaran-fucking-tee before the week's over this," he jerked a thumb in the direction of the sound, "be the least of the shit ya gotta worry bout. Hell, by the end of the night yer body count will be double digits. Ya wanna live?"

She nodded.

"Then best learn to kill, and fast."

That sealed it. Undead, vampire, monster. All that mattered was that she lived. To get back to Prim. Keep her safe. All Prim had was her, and if killing a vampire, or a person, was what it took to get back...

Fingers closed around the handle, then Haymitch's hand closed on hers.

"'Ey."

She looked up.

"Be ready. Green or not, he _is_ a vampire."

She scurried around him, hugging the construction materials, moving from cover to cover until she was crouched behind a pile of bricks a few feet away from her target. Male from the pitch of the voice. He paced back and forth, muttering to himself. The tone switched between high pitched hysteria and guttural growling, tire iron bouncing up and down in his left hand. She grimaced, started to pray and stopped half-way.

He hadn't listened before. Sure as hell wouldn't decide to start now.

The vampire stopped a few from her hiding spot, turned around to continue his route. A few steps and he passed through a pool of light. Hair coated his arms, burst from the collar of his shirt. This man had never met a razor he lik-

No, not hair. Too thick, to coarse, it didn't cover his skin, it blotted it out like black marker against a white piece of pair. It was fur, and it covered every inch she could see, thick and brown, stray strands falling like a dog shedding in summer.

His head twisted to the side, and she caught a glimpse of a disfigured face, mouth and nose fusing together and protruding from his face. He looked more monster than vampire. He kept walking, his voice grew in fervor as the hysteria returned and the tire iron banged against the ground. His back was to her.

She would never get a better chance.

She charged, eyes fixated on him. Half-way across she kicked a loose metal pipe. It rolled and clanged along the floor like church bells ringing to call everyone to church. She was sure they could hear it back in Kentucky. She recovered, but he was already turning, tire iron sweeping out in front of him. The blow lifted her off her feet, sent her crashing into a pile of wood. It shattered, the tarp enveloped her. She tore it apart just in time to see tire iron swooping at her. She rolled right, felt it graze her skull. He lashed out his boot turning ribs to confetti. Pain raced through her body and she dropped the knife. He brought the iron down again, she scurried back. The tire iron hit pavement, and she threw herself up and tackled him.

They ploughed through a stack of bricks, scattered steel pipes. Something tripped him, and they went down on a pile of debris. She pinned the hand holding the tire iron with a single knee, then drove her fists into his face. Someone howled, long and piercing and a shiver rippled down her spine. All she could see was his face, and the urge to smear it across every inch of the pavement.

His nose broke on the third hit, teeth shattering by the fourth. He spat into her eyes, blinding her. She reared back, he bucked his hips and launched her a foot into the air. The tire iron came up, thunked into her skull. She landed on a pile of debris as her vision rippled with black and silver. When she could see, all she saw was it looming above her.

Lips curled back to reveal chipped fangs and teeth. Red-tinged drool splattered onto her shirt and neck. The tire iron swung up high in a two handed grip, ready to smash her skull into a thousand pieces that all the king's men could never put together again. He opened his mouth, and her hand snapped forward. A chunk of brick flew into it. He bit down, gagged, spat out dust and brick chunks. Katniss lurched up, a piece of wood in hand and drove it through his knee. The howl nearly stunned her, but she lashed out with a leg. He toppled, and she drove another shard of wood into his chest on the way down.

He hit the ground, unmoving. A child's nightmare made flesh, now a statue.

Katniss didn't wait to see how long it would last. Her hands wrapped around a thick steel pipe. It came up and down, again and again, until his face was spread across the ground.

"Not pretty, but ye got the job done."

Haymitch offered her a hand. She got up on her own, stiff and in agony.

"Thanks for the help." She spat a wad of blood from her mouth.

"I ain't always gonna be around sweetheart." His smiled slipped. For a moment she saw a glimpse of another man, but it disappeared as fast as a storm with a strong wind, "Gonna have to learn how to take care of yerself."

"Thanks for the lesson. What's lesson two?"

"Only one lesson, sweetheart."

"Kill or be killed?"

"Somethin' like that."

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the corpse. It burst into flame then turned white-hot, heat pouring off it like a roaring fire. She grabbed the tire iron and went looking for the knife. By the time she found it, Haymitch had already ripped the buildings front doors open.

"Come on. Sounds like another Sabbat pack movin' in. We need to head underground," he added. She stared at the ash for a few seconds longer then followed him. They headed into the building, dank, dark and dingy until Haymitch found a grate that gave them access to the basement. Down the ladder, they moved through a rooms filled with pipes that gurgled while machines hissed, venting steam.

Haymitch froze, hand held up to stop her. Then he laughed.

"Ahh shit, ya hear that?"

She listened, heard nothing new.

"Fuckin' humans. Sabbat likes to use'm when they decide to tuck n' run. Keep us busy, while they get out. Fuckin' idiots think they'll be turned if they prove themselves, n' here I am thinkin' it's another Sabbat pack movin' up in here ," he slapped a hand to his face "what an embarrassment. Got that knife handy?"

She nodded.

"Good."

Katniss tore the cardboard box open and scowled. Dresses. The kind fathers bought for six year old 'princesses' so they could get their disney fix. Something dripped down overhead, splattering against the back of her neck and shirt. Katniss grabbed a dress then threw the box away. It hit the ground, collided with something and tipped over, sending bright, frilly pink dresses spilling onto the floor as she tried to find the 'leak' and wipe the stain away at the same time..

It took her a minute to find the culprit.

Two racks above her a slack-jawed face dripped blood from its mouth. Another drop plummeted down and Katniss side-stepped as it splashed against the gray pavement. From the look, and height, one of Haymitch's victims. He liked to throw them around, for some reason. Not that there were any shortage of her own.

She whipped her head left to right, trying to shake the images that flashed before her eyes. Them coming up from the basement into a warehouse, ceiling three stories tall and riddled with bright lights displaying racks filled with boxes and the twenty-odd men who occupied it

They wore torn jeans and basketball shorts, wife beaters and over-sized t-shirts, every single one with a red bandanna around their foreheads wieldings bats, pipes and a few guns. They had laughed at Katniss and Haymitch. What could an old man and a girl do to them?

Not something they could answer anymore.

Her mind could only summon up bits and pieces of what happened next. Like a movie reel with half the frames torn out. Gunshots, bright muzzle flares blinding her. A face with a red bandanna, eyes dilated. Another face slammed into a metal shelf once, twice, teeth and blood spraying as he gurgled. More gunshots. Pain. Another face, ghost white, dried blood on his neck.

She shook her head again, and the images seemed to slip out as she forced herself to move onto the next box. The warehouse was packed to the brim with them, each with chinese letters on the side. This one was filled with cheap plastic dinosaurs. Useless.

The next box came undone as she continued to look for anything to replace her … well, it couldn't be called a t-shirt. Not anymore. More like a spiderweb of fabric that clung together for emotional support. The dark-colored bra covered her up a bit, but walking around like this would attract attention. The kind that came with blue and red lights and a lot of questions. Handcuffs too, and once was enough.

Another box crammed with dresses, but more age-appropriate. She took one out, saw the tacky neon-green color that wouldn't reach mid-thigh and chucked both it and the box. She would sooner wear something covered in blood. The next box held men's XL t-shirts.

"Thank god," she mumbled, shredding plastic packaging and picking one at random. Should she even be saying that anymore? Weren'- No. She shook her head and focused on the shirt, black with some bands logo on the front. Her hand tugged at hers and it came apart. She tossed it onto the face of a corpse, covering up his eyes.

Sure, he was dead, but still it felt weird to be half-undressed when someone was looking.

"Pretty sure your ride's outside sweetheart."

Haymitch appeared at the end of the rack, leaning against it while going through hi- someone's wallet, she corrected.

"You mind?"

He snorted but turned around.

It was too big, and she tugged it down as low as it could go, nearly to her thighs. Which helped hide at least some of the stains. Outside a car horn blared twice.

"How do you know? You can turn around," she said.

"What the hell kind of cab driver is gonna show up to the scene of a mass murder? Plus, I know the guy. He ain't bad, talks too much; just make sure to tip good. Oh, and do _not_ get him started on philosophy or religion. Ya'll need to die again, might want to, before he shuts up," He threw a look over his shoulder, quick enough to see if she was ready, but not long enough to see anything if she wasn't. Maybe he wasn't all bad. He strolled right by her, stopping to kneel by a corpse.

"Damn sweetheart, ya gotta learn. Never leave goods lying around," Haymitch said. Something flew over his shoulder and she barely caught it. A wallet. Flipped it open to see it bursting with tens and twenties, credit cards and ID. She chucked those out immediately as a watch hit her in the face.

"Sorry," he called, as if he knew she was scowling at his back "but ye gonna regret not taking'em. _Prince_ Snow doesn't pay very well, and ye'll want all the cash and stuff you can pawn."

When they finished she had four watches, a silver crucifix, several rings, and a small wad of cash. She counted it out. Six hundred and thirty-eight dollars, more when she pawned the junk. Her mind struggled to deal with this much cash. When was the last time she'd had that much money at one time? After her father's insurance doled out a few thousand dollars maybe, a fraction of what they were entitled too.

It figured the only time money wouldn't be an issue would be after she'd been kidnapped, drugged and spent half a night killing people and … other things. Haymitch motioned her around the corner, and they walked towards a wide double door.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Haymitch pried the front door open. Sirens that were muted before became deafening, dozens of them overlapping and getting closer.

"That's it, sweetheart. Just like that, it's over. Everyone slinks back into their corners of the city for the night. Then tomorrow, the Camarilla finds some way to hit back. Parry, dodge, etc. Though ya came at a uh, an interestin' time," a cigarette appeared in his hand, lighter flipping open in the other "an interestin' time. The Camarilla, the Sabbat, their the new kids on the block. The rich kids whose daddies just bought a big four garage home, strutting around like they own the place. But plenty o' Kindred put down stakes long before them. Plenty who ain't willin' to take it lying down."

He took a drag, opened his mouth at the same time the cab driver laid on the horn.

"Ahh shit. Was hoping to fill y' in on a little more, but...eh, ye'll figure it out. If ya make it back, stop by at the District Thirteen - it's this bar downtown here, got a card somewhere," a hand came out with a battered business card with a phone number on it," I'll fill ya in on the politics. Now that, _that's_ the stuff that'll kill ya. Good luck, sweetheart," He finished. Without any choice, and because she wanted the cab driver to lay off the horn, she mumbled her thanks and walked into the night.


End file.
